


Wicked Princes

by annabeth



Category: Reign (TV)
Genre: Angst, Half-Sibling Incest, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Underage, Incest, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-09
Updated: 2020-11-09
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:48:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27476035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annabeth/pseuds/annabeth
Summary: "She told me to take a lover," Francis says, the gleam so often in his eyes blunted and dull.
Relationships: Bash/Francis, Sebastian "Bash" de Poitiers/Francis de Valois
Comments: 1
Kudos: 17





	Wicked Princes

**Author's Note:**

> spoilers for season two.

When they were children, before everything became so complicated, Bash and Francis hadn't felt the distance the throne would wedge between them so keenly yet. They had always been close, and even when Catherine and Henry began to limit the time they spent together, citing Francis's need to learn to govern, it couldn't keep them from loving each other.

The first time Bash had touched Francis like this, they had both been little older than the children they'd been, and it had been more innocent than anything with a deeper meaning. Just fumbling touches to Francis's chest, off-center kisses with noses bumping, and a sense that it meant nothing, that it was just fraternal affection, nothing to be disturbed about. Nothing to worry about.

When Bash had slept with Claude, when she'd convinced him Henry wasn't his real father, he'd had her underneath him, his hands all over her, and remembered touching Francis, remembered holding his head back for his kisses to his throat—and imagined that it wasn't as sick and forbidden as they'd thought. _No, Bash, it's wrong,_ Francis had said when he was fifteen, for the first time recoiling from Bash's kisses.

Yet, when Francis had come to Bash tonight, commanding a private audience with the King's Deputy, Bash hadn't expected _this_. He had dutifully followed Francis down to the wine cellar, surprised by Francis's aggression as he shoved Bash to the wall, jamming his thigh between Bash's legs, and taking his lips with determination.

Bash, despite his body's immediate, instinctive response, pulls away just enough to see the honey-slick of spit on Francis's lips, the darkness in the well of his eyes.

"What's going on, Francis?" he asks, one hand on Francis's chest to hold him at bay. He doesn't _want_ to, he wants to gather him as close as he wants and take advantage of whatever state of mind has brought his brother back into his arms, but he can't do it without asking this question. Francis is the king; even if he _is_ Bash's brother, Bash can't just ravish him with impunity anymore. Not even if Francis is the aggressor—unusual for them. When he'd been young and sickly, Bash had kept him company and entertained him, and that dynamic, where Bash took point in their activities, had continued even after their secret, taboo communion had occurred.

"Mary says…" Francis is choked up, his eyes slick now too, and Bash can see how difficult this is, knows how much it hurts Francis that Mary was raped and cannot bear to be near him anymore. He wants to offer reassurances, but what is there? Bash can't change the facts, and he can't heal Mary—and despite his deep love for Kenna, Bash still has buried feelings for Mary, not to mention these strange inconvenient emotions for his own brother.

"Is she all right?" he asks, though, unsure why Francis would have dragged him down to the wine cellar for an indiscretion when Mary holds his heart so tightly. Bash knows how deeply Francis loves her. This is a strange betrayal, like sunlight glinting off armor and sword point and giving away a soldier's position amongst bracken and trees. It is senseless, and Bash feels his heart squeeze at the thought of being this close to someone he'd wanted for so long, someone even more prohibited to him than Queen Mary when she arrived at court, and he'd felt that selfsame heart swoop down to his feet in desire of her, when he'd seen how beautiful she was.

"She told me to take a lover," Francis says, the gleam so often in his eyes blunted and dull.

"I doubt she meant your older brother," Bash points out wryly, but Francis just pushes against him.

"Maybe not, but if I can't have her…" he trails off and trails kisses along Bash's jaw, from the cut beneath his ear to the point. Bash shivers and trembles, undone by this simple touch, undone by the proximity of Francis and the scent of his skin. The way his thigh feels against Bash's cock, eager for more of this enterprise whether it makes sense or is right. They're too old for this now, old enough to understand it's wrong—but Bash can't curtail his responses, can't push Francis away, not again.

So he does what his king wants—the same way he always bends to Francis's will. The will of his brother and king commands Bash's actions, but nothing commands his heart but the beat of his _brother's_ heart. Not even Kenna can share this secret with him; this gentle butterfly of a love, that trembles to the touch and causes tsunamis and typhoons to rise from a simple flutter of its wings.

He has fallen completely for Kenna, but yet he's still unmercifully, deeply, wholly in love with Francis.

And he knows that someday that will be his downfall.

++

Later, when the candles are burning down to nubs, Bash is leaning against the cold, hard stone wall and holding Francis, his head lying on his chest and his shoulders feeling oddly fragile beneath Bash's palms.

"Does it help?" he asks, knowing he should just accept the gift as it is: freely given. But it's his nature to question—part of what makes him so great at his job—and besides, this is _Francis_. He's always going to want to know his heart, to understand what makes him hurt, to do anything in his power to help him heal. He wishes he could do the same for Mary, that he could close the rift between his brother and his wife so that Francis doesn't _need_ this, outside comfort. Likely cold comfort, since Bash holds no illusions that Francis has ever loved him in return with the same depth as of Bash's emotions.

Yet it was to _him_ he turned when desolate, confused, and broken. Bash knows Francis, and his brother is lost—lost in a tormented wood, like being deep within the bloodwood and not being able to find his way out. Francis didn't want Bash; he wants Mary, and Bash can't fault him for that, whether he wishes things could be different.

"Nothing helps," Francis says despondently, but he brushes his lips over Bash's bare chest. Their earlier frenzy of fornication has ebbed and waned into this soft afterglow, a tender moment alone where no one can see or judge them—no one but God, and while Bash doubts God approves of their union, incestuous as it is, he would never turn Francis away.

He wonders, suddenly, how Mary can look at this golden—if a bit tarnished—paragon of nobility, with the hair that his golden crown disappears into, and see only a man she thinks is responsible for what happened to her. Francis was being blackmailed in an attempt to protect her life—not only her country, but her very head. He made bad decisions, but he had no choice, and for Mary to push him away… well, Bash _does_ understand that Mary was violated, and he wouldn't wish it on anyone—not even Catherine—but she's blaming the wrong person. She ought to be baying for Narcisse's blood, for Francis to take his head. That edict Francis signed to save her life—Narcisse was behind that.

"She'll heal," he says helplessly, though. Shouldn't he know what to do? When did they become so different that he doesn't know how to help Francis anymore? Was it when Mary nearly destroyed their relationship by insisting she marry Bash? Was it when Bash thought Francis had ordered his death?

"She will," Francis says, on a huff of soft, desolate breath. "But at what cost?" He presses his mouth to Bash's skin near an old scar, one borne over his heart, and Bash remembers that he got it in service to the dauphin—protecting his brother.

"It won't be forever," Bash soothes, trying another tack. Trying anything, because fucking _him_ isn't going to solve Francis's problems.

"Bash," Francis whispers, reaching up to trace that same scar with a fingertip. "I don't forget you."

"What do you mean?" Bash begins to run his fingers through Francis's honey-silk curls, most likely for the benefit of them both.

"I know what you think," his brother says quietly, lips curving a bit. Bash can feel the sweetness of that smile even deep beneath his skin, down to the bone. _Blood of my blood, bone of my bone_. "You think you harbor all the feelings alone, sunk into the depths of your heart like a treasure beneath the sea. As if only you can dive deep enough to open that chest. But I _feel_ you, Bash. And I love you."

Bash pulls his chin up, kisses him fiercely, aware of the way those words burrow and sting. Francis _does_ love him, of course. He may even reciprocate Bash's most shameful desires, but Francis's heart belongs to Mary. Bash knows this—and he wouldn't change it, not for anything, not even to claim Francis as his own in private. Because this is a relationship that can never be brought into the light, and Francis was happy with Mary. Everything was as it should be.

So he kisses Francis with his every secret bared, like unburdening his soul in confession, and hangs onto him as if letting go will unmoor him—even though he knows Francis can, has, and will take comfort where he finds it. Bash is not special. Bash is only his older brother and the first person to make him feel good, to take him to those heights of passion.

So as the candles gutter, as the night wanes, and Bash tackles his private, personal hell with the same determination he shows everything, he knows it again: this is going to be his downfall.

Francis will be his end, and in that end, Bash knows he won't regret a thing.

END


End file.
